


To Kiss Sherlock Holmes

by bluebox_detective



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anonymous Narrator, BBC, Choose Your Own Character, Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Doesn't have to be Johnlock, Gen, Johnlock Fluff, Multi, Other, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 20:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1701836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebox_detective/pseuds/bluebox_detective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A romantic night at 221B between Sherlock Holmes and whomever you please (anonymous, gender-neutral, first-person narrator). It can be Johnlock if you want, or Sherlolly, or Sherlock and anyone else you ship. I tried to keep the voice as vague as possible. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Kiss Sherlock Holmes

I made my way to the couch and sat next to Sherlock, crossing one leg under the other. He stayed completely still, poised and slightly tense, like a hawk on a perch. He’d always reminded me a little of a hawk. Small-eyed and sharp-nosed, with such an intense command over a room that you felt obligated to obey his instructions without a second thought. He was the human embodiment of control.

Now, in the flat, the hawk-like features and overbearing force he carried with him were toned down. Upon close inspection, I noticed that his nose, though long and angled, was sort of rounded at the tip. His eyes looked tired, less sharp than usual. I’d never seen them so stoic, so still. They were always shooting from point to point, seizing information at an incomprehensible rate.

But not now. Now they were calm: not apathetic, necessarily, but more…relaxed. I wasn’t used to a relaxed Sherlock. He looked so soft, so warm. I tried to stop myself, to hold back my desire to touch him, but I couldn’t. My fingers found their way to his cheek in the dim lighting. God, those cheekbones. He didn’t flinch or cower away from my touch, so I allowed my hand to explore his face, as gently and noninvasively as possible, hoping I wouldn’t scare him away.

I scooted a little closer and continued to draw tiny lines with my index finger along the contours of his expression. I lingered in the hollow of his cheek a moment, before moving my head closer to his, and allowing my mouth to take the place of my hand.

At first I didn’t touch him with my lips, only my breath, taking in his features one by one with such little space between us. He really was astoundingly beautiful. The bones in his face were all amazingly sharp, and his skin was pale and smooth as a model’s. _That’s what we’ll have him do if business ever runs dry,_ I thought, _model for magazines. They could put him in designer suits and ruffle his curls and we’d be set for life._

Thinking of his curls made me want to explore them too, so I did. His face didn’t change as my lips and nose worked their way through his dark hair. I put one hand on his shoulder to steady myself, feeling his muscle tense and then release, and the other I used to unsettle the curls. All I did was run my fingers through them once or twice, and suddenly he looked completely different. Suddenly he looked more—alive.

I wished desperately that he hadn’t shaved today. Although it was probably best for both of us: I wasn’t sure if I could control myself against his messy hair _and_ his chin scruff.

I pulled myself into his lap, straddling his legs, and finally he looked at me. When our eyes met, I knew he wasn’t going to stop me. He looked almost desperate, like he was pleading with me to keep touching him. I felt so sorry for him sometimes; he pushed people away and then quietly sulked around, obviously longing for affection. He hardly ever got any from anyone. He was an asshole, and he knew it, and so did everyone else on God’s green earth. I knew it better than anyone. And I knew he was dangerous; this was dangerous. Getting involved. Taking things further than what they had been before. But the way he looked at me now told me it was too late; there was no going back.

I might as well enjoy myself.

Actually—I might as well enjoy _him._

The next place I moved to was his forehead. I let my lips brush lightly against his eyebrows, which were sort of blocky but not very dense. The space between his eyebrows drove me crazy. It wrinkled up when he was confused or upset, but now his features were relaxed, and the skin there was smooth. I finally allowed myself to plant an actual kiss there, pressing my lips to the spot for a few seconds, and then traveling down his nose and doing the same.

He shut his eyes and I left a trail of kisses across his face, first down his nose, then on each side of it, back up his cheekbones, against his eyelids, and so on. His breathing became raggedy and one of his slender hands moved to my hip. I took a brief pause to rest my forehead against his and feel his breath on my mouth before I began working at the bottom half of his face.

There I started in the hollows of his cheeks, which were so deep my lips practically disappeared into them. I pecked around the space between his nose and upper lip, which made him smile a little, which in turn made me move to the corners of his mouth. I was careful not to kiss directly him on the lips: I wanted to save that until after I’d explored every inch of his face, if he would even have it.

Finally I got down to his chin. I felt a quivering sensation in my stomach and tried to stay relaxed. His jawline was almost more than I could bear. And then, God have mercy, he tipped his head back. I stifled a moan. Who moans at a time like this? Kissing someone’s jaw. That’s hardly even sexual.

But I did it anyway. The sound was smaller, weaker than I’d anticipated, and Sherlock responded by putting his other hand on my other hip. He held me there, firmly, and relaxed his head against the back of the couch.

I started to feel more and more flustered, and did my best to pace myself. _Don’t go so fast,_ I thought, _relish the moment, make it last…_

But I was losing myself. The more kisses I placed, along the sides of his jaw bone and in the dips beneath it, against the veins in his neck, just below his ears…the more aggressive I got. I moved my hands to the back of his neck and allowed myself to kiss all the way down to his collar bone, which I could only reach thanks to his having unbuttoned the top of his shirt when he got home. I mentally thanked him for that.

Just before I was about to kiss him on the mouth, he sighed once and beat me to it.

Oh, God.

His lips moved against mine, nervously at first, and then with the same control he used to run a room full of panicked people. He felt so good, so strong. His broad shoulders and big hands made me feel small against him. His fingers wandered across my back, pulling me closer and closer until the only space between us was that occupied by our clothes.

I felt every flex of his chin; he kissed with his jaw, stretching his bottom lip out to pull against mine again and again. My mouth was already open, but I was still surprised when his tongue found its way in. I tried to be gentle: I wasn’t sure how much of this he’d actually done. I didn’t want to do something weird and alarm him.

But he went for every opportunity to get closer. His tongue explored my mouth and his hands my shoulders. I felt a tightness in my core and carefully planned my movements before I executed them. I moved my hands tactfully against his neck, tugging at his collar, but leaving the buttons of his shirt alone. I thought to myself that if we didn’t go any further than this I’d still be too happy to sleep tonight.

I broke my lips away from his and went back to his neck. I was less cautious now. I did my best not to leave any marks on his skin, and combatted the urge by pulling him far enough forward that I could reach the back of his neck if I straightened myself up. When I made my way back to his lips, I took the alternate route through his hair and across his ear.

He made a strangled swallowing sound somewhere deep in his chest and before I could get back to kissing his mouth, his lips were on my neck. I didn’t know anything could feel so good—so real. But here I was.

I did what Sherlock would do: tried to memorize the moment. I thought that maybe if I soaked up all the details, I could lock them up somewhere in my brain, and visit them on special occasions. So I noticed everything I could. The way he smelled—like cologne and winter and the interior of a taxi. I tried to feel his warmth as deeply as I could, and force my nerves to commit to memory the curve of his lips against my skin.

I didn’t feel the slightest bit self-conscious—not anymore, not about anything. I didn’t worry about my tired body or my aging skin. In this moment, with Sherlock’s mouth pressed hot against my jaw, I felt invincible.

Finally our lips found each other once again and I contemplated the beauty of mouth-to-mouth kissing. It was so much more personal than body kissing. Sherlock could sit completely still while I kissed him all over, and I would be the only one participating—consenting, even, to the show of affection. But as our mouths collided time after time, it was clear we both wanted to be here, living this moment to its full potential.

I thought we might just slow down and stop eventually, but somehow Sherlock got more restless, more excited, more _here._ He pulled at the hem of my shirt and held my head in his hands. His fingers were so long he could cover the entire back of my skull, which made me feel even smaller and safer than before. There seemed to be no going back, and no desire to go back, for either of us.

He somehow helped me to my feet and stood in front of me without breaking our kiss, and as his tall, lean figure pushed me gently toward his room, I knew for a fact that I was a goner.


End file.
